GRANDFATHER.
We never suffer from a want of space: we can afford to give you as wide a berth as you like. What little suffices for us is never the bone of contention between any rival claimants. Is not that so, my little friends? [They sing.]
SONG.
We have nothing, indeed we have nothing at all!
We sing merrily fol de rol de rol!
Some build high walls of their houses
On the bog of the sands of gold.
We stand before them and sing
Fol de rol de rol.
Pickpockets hover about us
And honour us with covetous glances.
We shake our empty pockets and sing
Fol de rol de rol.
When death, the old hag, steals to our doors
We snap our fingers at her face,
And we sing in a chorus with gay flourishes
Fol de rol de rol.
KANCHI.
Look over there, Koshala, who are those coming this way? A pantomime? Somebody is out masquerading as a King.
KOSHALA.
The King of this place may tolerate all this tomfoolery, but we won’t.
AVANTI.
He is perhaps some rural chief.
[Enter GUARDS on foot]
KANCHI.
What country does your King come from?
First Soldier.
He is the King of this country. He is going to command the festivities. [They go out.]
KOSHALA.
What! The King of this country come out for the festivities!